


OC Writing Prompts

by princeluma



Category: JMCU
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 00:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15207164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeluma/pseuds/princeluma
Summary: Collection of drabbles about Homestuck OCs! They probably won't make much sense, but if anyone happens to be reading them, hello! :)Prompts used: http://fic-writer-appreciation.tumblr.com/post/172470275779





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> Betrayal (n): to deliver or expose to an enemy by treachery or disloyalty. Betraying one’s country, group, or person.

"I do not feel right," was the first thing he said. 

"Of courze you don't," was _his_  reply. "You're dead."

_I'm dead,_ he repeated to himself--not a question or an affirmation, and not even a response to what the other had said. Instead, he echoed the words as if he was reciting knowledge he'd always known.

He took a deep breath.

Or... he didn't, because when he tried to breathe, nothing went in. The explanation was obvious: he had no lungs anymore, and couldn't inhale any air. But he kept finding himself making attempts to respirate during the first few hours of his existence. It would've felt strange and even uncomfortable--like his lungs were stuffed full of cotton balls--if he was able to experience strangeness or discomfort. When the grace period from troll to ghost had finally finished, his new form shedding all of its useless, vestigial biological routines, he didn't even notice that he stopped.

But some habits were harder to shake.

For some reason even he couldn't parse at first, his new form still allowed him to cry, and he made use of this functionality frequently. During the first day or so of his new existence, his glassy eyes were consistently clouded by blanched, buoyant tears. He paid no attention to them, but they seemed to manifest so often that even  _he_ eventually paused to check on him. Of course, he had no satisfactory answer for either of them.

The truth was, when he said that he didn't feel "right," he was incorrect--at least partly. It was a fair amount of time until he revisited, and then mentally amended this statement: He didn't feel "right" or "wrong." He did not feel anything at all. Everything he did, everything he  _thought_ he'd felt since he'd woken up... it was all just routine. The crying was like the breathing: pointless, unnecessary, and a nuisance if nothing else. Perhaps one day it would stop just like the latter did.

But he doubted it, because, unlike the breathing, the crying wasn't his new form's futile attempts to carry out a process without the equivalent tool. He used to be Nimmin, after all, so it would follow that, even if he was unable to experience emotions like his predecessor, he'd retain Nimmin's emotional framework. He cried so often and so heavily because his brain--or, what was left of Nimmin's brain--was in constant mourning of what he once was, of everything he'd lost. 

Even then, as he passively contemplated his circumstances, he felt his eyes prick with filmy, airy tears. He let them free with a blink, and watched them bob in the toxic air. They weren't his, and he didn't feel them. They were a habit he hadn't shaken yet, a proclivity that had traveled with him from troll to corpse to sprite, no different than his horns or his, albeit dampened, personality. Nimmin would have cried at thoughts like these, so Nimminsprite will as well. 

And what else would Nimmin do if he were here? Would he be angry? Would he attempt to retaliate, to futilely put _him_ through something similarly painful? Or would he run away, even though he knew it was pointless, that he had nowhere to go, no one to go to?

He didn't care enough to think that long about it. He mindlessly watched the tears drift away until they evaporated into nothingness, and then floated away too in search of his player. There was still one thing he knew how to do.


	2. Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul (n): The spiritual or immaterial part of human being or animal, regarded as immortal. The essence or embodiment of a specific quality.

"I surrender, I surrender!" Murder cries out, raising her arms above her head. As the final member of the enemy team steps into the doorway, she catches her eye and tilts her chin towards her shotgun, placed intentionally to her right, and then theatrically wiggles her bare fingers. "My teammate did too. I'll show you where he is."

Her foe raises a skeptical brow, looking her up and down in search of any concealed weapons. Understanding, Murder carefully spins around to show that there's nothing hidden behind her back, and does a quick shimmy to show that there is nothing inside the pockets of her jacket capable of making noise. 

Smirking amusedly, the other troll lowers her weapon, seemingly satisfied with Murder's demonstration. "Alright." After speaking, she lets out a gentle sigh, does a quick wiggle to relieve herself of the stress of the tense game, and then slips her knife into the sheath at her hip. Murder's eyes narrow ever-so slightly.

The troll laughs and gives her a shy, relieved smile. "Wow... that was really fun. I've never won before!"

"You earned it," Murder says, slowly dropping her arms back to her sides. She gives her a toothy smile in return, and shoots a quick glance at her shotgun. "He's right this way. You go ahead, it's just right down the hall." She nods gratefully, and with childlike obedience moves to leave.

As soon as her back is turned, Murder immediately swoops down, grabs her shotgun in her hands, and then jams the barrel between her shoulder blades. Her opponent freezes in place, taking in a soft, frightened breath.

"Rookie mistake. The game isn't over until the whole team surrenders..." She nods to the Flapstraction hovering a few feet away from them--out of the troll's range of view until now--which lists the names of all four participants in their session. As she sees on the screen, both of their teammates surrendered earlier in the game, _DEFEAT_ displayed aside their names. But even more surprising is that, though Murder declared surrender earlier, her status is still listed as  _ACTIVE._

It takes her only a second to understand. Throughout their exchange, Murder had been careful to keep the tip of her boot pressed to the handle of her gun. She'd noticed, of course, but hadn't made the connection: in order to formally surrender, a player would have to relinquish their weapon to the enemy team, but because she was still  _touching_ it, her claim of surrender didn't count. It was a jackass move, definitely... but not cheating. 

"...Or dies."

The two stand there for a moment or two, waiting for the other to act. Brinev expects a the other to make an admission of her loss, perhaps a breathless compliment of her skillful deceit. She's also just happy enough to bask in this moment, thrilled at the feeling of  _her_ first win. The troll can take her time declaring surrender.

What she does not expect is for the other to shoot a hand to her holstered knife, drawing it quicker than Brinev can blink, and swing her arm backwards, blade aimed directly for her captor.

Brinev doesn't think. She doesn't even realize she's pulled the trigger until the troll collapses into a bloody slump at her feet.

Letting out a high, excited shriek, she follows her to the floor, crouching down to get a better look at the damage she's done. She scoots back so the wounded troll can fall backwards, her upper half sprawled awkwardly across her shins. Her legs immediately burn with warm, red blood, and she's only able to stomach one glance at the troll's torso before feeling bile rise in her throat. 

She watches her face instead. Her lips quiver, jaw spasming in an attempt to speak, but only a deep, hollow moan falls past her gaping jaw. Spit--no, wait, that's blood--dribbles down her lip and splats onto Brinev's knees. Her hands clench and unclench frantically, nails clawing into the stone floor like they're trying to dig a way out. Blanched yellow eyes stare up at her, aghast--no, no, not at  _her_ , at something on her.

 _What is she looking at?_ Brinev follows her gaze, darkly curious, to her right arm. Evidently, likely just milliseconds before Murder shot her, her opponent had managed to graze her upper arm with her knife. The sleeve has been torn open, and tiny beads of pink are beginning to ooze out of the thin cut. Without thinking, she presses a shaky finger to the cut, dyeing her index with the rosy shade. Brinev hadn't even felt it.

The scrambling of claws on stone is beginning to slow, the efforts more instinctual than voluntary. She looks back at the troll, whose garbled moaning has grown even louder now, her attempts to speak even more frantic, and can't think of a single thing to say. 

As she dies, Brinev watches her face closely. She'd often wondered--fantasized, even--about moments like this. What does someone look like as the life fades out of them? She imagined the skin paling into a chalky grey, the eyes losing their shine and then fluttering closed, the lips parting into a small, sleepy pout. One final breath would escape them, a doomed sigh, and then the body would be still.

Maybe some of her predictions did come true. She would never know. As she dies, Brinev is unable take her eyes away from her victim's own. They are wide and afraid, focusing on that pinkish cut like it's the only thing in the entire world. Those eyes see something in her, something deep and hidden and dark and  _ugly,_  and whatever they see is drawing that hoarse, choked cry out of her.

And then she is dead. Her desperate fingers twitch feebly one final time and then fall limp upon the stones. The room is silent, and the corpse's eyes remain ominously fixated on the pink blood on her jacket, mouth unnaturally agape in eternal shock. They look the same as before--large and unmoving.

Brinev sits there for a moment longer, petrified, and then gets up. She grabs her shotgun, the weapon somehow untouched by any of the crimson blood seeping across the floor, and wipes her fingertip on the handle. Then, refusing herself a final glance at the corpse, she clears her throat and walks away.

Following that session, Brinev would never again stick around to watch Murder's victims die. 

 


	3. Savage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Savage: (adj) Fierce, violent, uncontrolled. (n) a member of people regarded as primitive and uncivilized. (v) attack ferociously and maul.

It wasn't one of his most civilized kills. He usually wouldn't have cared about the mess he made--in fact, the messier the better! Those highblood snobs got to die while crusting up their downy carpets with their own rotten blood. Let them drown in their own distinguished blood even. 

Unfortunately, his victim tonight isn't a highblood at all. He runs his wet fingers through his hair with a displeased sigh, staining the locks with an earthy gold. _Oh, w_ _hat a mess he's made._  He really shouldn't have snuck in through the bedroom window, but he was in a hurry. He had to get this done before sunrise, which was set to take place about twenty minutes before he arrived. And the operation probably would've gone smoothly if he hadn't forgotten how crappy lowblood architecture is. He'd managed to pry the stubborn latch open without a hitch, but he wasn't even able to breathe on the hinges of the pane without them squealing out in cheap rusty protest.

He didn't even wait to see if he'd woken the troll up--he was tired and pissed and wanted his damn prize already. He raised his right arm to his mouth and tore off his sleeve with his teeth, wrapped the scrap of fabric around his knuckles, and then shattered the glass with his fist. When he jumped in, the poor guy was already out of his recuperacoon, dripping head-to-toe with the green goop and staring at him with huge, terrified eyes. 

A heartbreaking sight, for sure. But also an easy target. Dimerc immediately seized control of his body, keeping him still as he looked around for the nearest weapon. A katana hung on his wall--probably never been used before. Dimerc swiped it and then walked over to him, looking him in the eyes--which, though now green and glossy, were still glistening with unabashed terror. "Sorry," he murmured, and he meant it. And then he swung the blade through his neck, drenching both of them in yellow and sending the guy's head tumbling across the room.

He uses the cloth to wipe his eye and mouth, and then tosses it to the floor. He really did hate doing this stuff. Poor kid didn't deserve this--he just had something he needs, and he had no other choice. You can't make a revolution without cracking a few innocent victims, or however that saying is supposed to go. 

Besides, he got off a lot better than most of his targets. If this troll was _anywhere_ close to royalty, he would've gotten inside his head and overloaded his brain until it exploded into colorful little meaty chunks, or choked him to death with his whip--loose enough so it'd take forever for him to die, but tight enough that it hurt like all hell.

But no, he was just planning on just giving him a quick slice under his chin, which was the most merciful way he could think of to kill somebody. Choking is less painful when done with good intentions, sure, but it takes a hell of a lot longer. But this way, you feel that sharp, terrible, overwhelming agony for a few seconds, a minute tops, and then it's over. And hey, decapitation probably hurt even less--but it was a lot less dignified, and he really did regret that. If he'd had more time, maybe he could've thought up something different. Oh, well.

Dimerc hears scrambling outside and instantly forgets about the corpse at his feet. _No_ _w we're talking!_ Too excited to wait to be discovered, he hops out of the window and seeks out his real target. He even lets out a few hoots and hollers to get the thing to notice him quicker. Noise isn't an issue anymore. Even if any neighbors cared enough to investigate, the two of them would be out of here before they could even make it out of their hive.

It must have been on the roof, because it descends on him from straight above. It's hovering about ten feet above the ground, long, glowing wings buzzing with the immense effort it takes to keep its huge body airborne. Large, golden hexagonal-lined eyes glare down at him, and a shrill, infuriated roar resounds from its chittering mouth. Beast like that probably doesn't have great eyesight, but there's so much blood on him it's impossible to miss. 

Laughing feverishly, he draws his whip and strikes it in the air in a few playful snaps, and then races a ways back in preparation. When it lunges down at him, he swiftly strafes to the right, anticipating the action. The bug, too large to change course quickly enough, crashes into the dirt, skidding to a stop a few yards away. Chuckling, he bounds over to it, climbing up one of its thick legs and then racing across its abdomen and towards its head. The dragonfly flutters its wings, attempting to regain flight and shake him off, but it's too late. 

As intelligent or willful as this lusus might be, it's no match for a troll brain. 

Straddling its neck, he cradles its giant head from behind, possessively rubbing the area behind its antennae. "Don't worry. Things are gonna make sense real soon." And then Dimerc's eyes glow green. Still petting its head, he hums to himself as he invades every crevice of the dragonfly's mind, carefully and deliberately reinventing memories and emotional attachments as he goes.

It takes less than a minute for it to completely forget about the goldblood. When Dimerc is finished, his body slick with opaque green sweat, he leans over to check his handiwork. Like every other time he's done this, he won't need to use his powers on to keep the lusus in his favor anymore--he'd rewritten its memories and even the framework of its brain. Still, though, he pauses a moment after releasing control of it. He'd have no chance of fighting back if this hadn't worked, so he can't make any assumptions.

It doesn't move. Encouraged, Dimerc cautiously waves a limp hand in front of its eyes. The bug immediately perks up at the sight, wiggling its antennae affectionately. "Lovely," he chuckles hoarsely, and then grabs hold of them, pulling them back and taut as if they're reins. "Now... let's go home. There's nothing for us here." 

His lusus immediately takes to the air in pursuit of their hive, leaving a broken window and a headless corpse for the drones to discover when night falls once again.


	4. Addiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Addiction (n): the fact of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity.

She strums her nails along the keyboard, furrowing her brow as she stares at the screen. Nereia had come online almost five minutes ago, and she's _still_ struggling to formulate a message. With a heavy sigh, she hunches down and forces herself to begin writing.

WE: hi, nereia!  
WE: i just noticed you were online, haha  
WE: how are you?

A minute passes. ... That's okay. She's probably doing something else, and she'll see it in a minute.  
  
Five minutes pass... Did she not see it? Maybe Ronian should send another message, just to be safe. Agh, but that'd just come across as clingy and weird!  
  
Ten minutes. Has she blinked this entire time? Staring at the screen is making her anxious, but she'd be even more anxious if she looked away.  
  
Eleven minutes. Okay, it's okay. She obviously just didn't see the notification or something. Ronian will just send another message

WE: omg yknow what i just realized? we havent played a game 2gether in such a long time lmao  
WE: maybe if ur not busy rn we could! but, its cool if u cant. just lemme now lolz

That was terrible. Aughgughughaugh. She bangs her head on the keyboard in frustration.

WE: fryrghfidvdfjv88888

_FUCK._

WE: omfg that was my lusus being a dick again just ignore that  
WE: she bumped into my comp and sent that somehow wtf  
WE: i get so fuckin sick of her sometimes lmfao  
WE: hows ur lusus doin btw?

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Okay. She's just... going to get up and do something else. Trying to salvage this will just embarrass herself further. Grinding her fangs into her bottom lip, she moves to get up and practice the cello for a bit when, just out of the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of pink appear underneath her wall of text. Swiveling back around with a jerk, she scoots as close to the screen as she can get, eyes wide with anticipation.

[euphuisticWicked is typing...]

Ronian sighs, eyelids drooping with dopey relief, and rests her soft blue cheeks against her palms as she awaits her reply.  
  
What a lovely color.


	5. Novice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Novice (n): a person new to or inexperienced in a field or situation.

Sighing in frustration, she picks up a stone, turning it around in her palm. It's glittery and opaque, and when it catches the sunlight right you can see inside it. Pretty.  
  
Who cares. As she walks along, she squeezes her fist around the stone, using it inefficient and painful stress ball. But then, suddenly... it _gives_. Confused, she lifts the thing to her face, eyes widening when she realized that it's shrunken.  
  
...Huh? Pushing her thumb experimentally into it, it's obvious the thing isn't fragile or malleable enough to squish. Furrowing her brow, she tightens her fist around it again, attempting to repeat the phenomenon. No dice.  
  
Stupid thing. Of course she managed to come across the one glitched rock on this entire planet. Clicking her tongue, she clenches the thing in her fist and poises her arm to toss it into the sea... until it gives once again. When she opens her palm, it's shrunk over twice its size, now barely the length of her thumbnail. 

She smiles, pinching the tiny thing in her fingers. When she tries squeezing it again, the action prompted by curiosity instead of anger, it doesn't budge. Her lips twitch into the beginnings of a grin.

 _I did this._ She slips the stone--now a tiny pebble--into her pocket, and then leans down to pick up another. Walking down the beach, she continues her experiment, the weight of the little thing barely noticeable against her hip.  _And I'm going to do it again._

* * *

 

"What is that?" she asks, gesturing to the pulsating item in Irene's palm. 

She looks up for a second, surprised, and then laughs softly. Looking back down at her hand, she opens it up, revealing a clear, glittering stone. She stares at it for a moment, thinking, and then laughs again, amused with her own thoughts.

"Open your hand."

Kinesi does so, unquestioning. Irene leans over, catching her eye for a moment with an eager, almost  _shy_ smile, and then places it in her palm. Raising her hand so it's about six inches above the other's, her fingers twitch almost imperceptibly. The stone shudders for the briefest of seconds, and then shrivels up within her palm to the size of a grape. 

Kinesi stares in amazement, breaking out into a toothy, delighted smile of her own. "That's amazing! How did you do that?"

But her companion shows no interest in the countless physical, spatial, and logical laws she has so casually broken. She has been watching the other the entire time, studying her face as if her reaction is the deciding factor of the continuity of their friendship. As soon as Kinesi smiles, though, Irene does too. It seems that she's passed.

Turning to their hands, she plucks the pebble back up. "Now watch this." She cups her hands around it as if she's performing a magic trick, and then quickly uncovers it once again. There's no drama or stagecraft in her reveal, but she's too excited to see the other's reaction to care. 

Eyes flit between the fully restored stone and Irene, trying in vain to understand what she's just done. But Irene's remain on the stone this time, still warm against her skin from Kinesi's touch.


	6. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memory (n): the faculty by which the mind stores and remembers information. Something remembered from the past, a recollection.

It's a ghost. It has to be. There is no way in hell that she's real.

Determined as he is to keep his hopes buried deep, shoveling them down until the life is squeezed, suffocated out of them, he can't help but notice how... how  _solid_ she looks. If she is ghost, why does her form still cast a shadow on the ground? Why do strands of her hair dance across her cheeks as the breeze tickles them? They look so real that he is almost convinced that if he's able to take just a few steps closer, he brush them back into place.

His fingers throb with a deep-seated longing at the sight. He'd always craved touch.

The imprints of gold-leaf on the decorated borders surrounding each illustration in his most expensive, ancient picture-books.

The wrinkled pages: victims to careless spills from irresponsible naps near full cups. 

The feeling of chips of old blood under his fingernails as he scraped it off the pads of his fingers.

Even the soft, downy fur of his lusus was comforting at times.

But nothing compared to her.

"Your hair is soft," he'd said, holding a tiny strand delicately between his thumb and index finger, as if a stronger hold would tarnish it, dull its luster. It became one of his favorite things to touch; he often found himself doing so without thinking, drawn to the soft locks like a magnet. She'd given him an amused smirk in response, leaned in until her forehead bumped against his, and then laid a kiss to the top of his head. "You're softer," she replied, still beaming when she returned.  
  
In the moment, he'd dismissed her words as a childish retort. Nirlan, as long as he'd known her, had never been one for particularly advanced repartee. But, he tried not to fault her too much for that underwhelming comeback—she clearly had no experience in romantic affairs. If she only gave them a chance, he was sure that she too would be enraptured by the sincerity of their love. She would see the loving embrace the prince and princess share after the battle has been won, she would read the soft and sensitive words they exchange in the refuge of one another's breast, and she would feel how he felt. She would know love like he did.

None of the princesses _he_ knew would respond with such an immature remark. They would blush, perhaps avert their eyes in embarrassment and fondness, and coyly say, "Thank you," or "You're too kind." But Nirlan was never anywhere near formal with him, and she _certainly_ never blushed.

She made him blush, though, her fingers cool and soft against his burning cheeks as she half-caressed-half-prodded him, fascinated with the pale emerald his skin shifted. When she touched him like that, he didn't care about all the loving things she  _should_ have said, the terms of endearments she _should_ have used. Under her hand, he was the bashful, smitten princess—happy, cherished, and safe. During moments like those, he understood love as she did.

* * *

 

He was slumped by a table in the corner, fixedly tracing his index finger over the rim of his mug. He'd been nursing his second round of whatever artless, floundering attempt at tea the bartender had begrudgingly brewed for him for the past half hour or so. The streetlights outside had flickered off a bit ago, an indication that sunrise was not too far off.

He hated being out this late, and he would've liked to chug the rest and been done with it, but the thing was so disgusting that he couldn't bear to assault his taste-buds so violently. Fortunately, he wasn't here for the taste. He _much_ preferred to brew his own beverages in the comfort and privacy of his own hive, but his ever-present insomnia sometimes grew so unbearable that he had to turn to medicinal tactics to pacify his aching mind. And because he didn't have the wealth nor the desire to afford the high-class depressants he needed tonight, he had to force down this wretched concoction. This place certainly wasn't cheap, but it was close to his hive and it had a wide selection. It did well enough.

"Is that blood?"

Apart from a few trolls hunched over at the bar, he was the only one there. Out of his periphery, he spotted someone standing a few feet away, obviously looking directly at him. Sighing into his cup, he spared a glance upwards. 

She was a lowblood, like most of the bar's patrons, but a bit too low to not draw attention. If the obnoxious gold of her symbol wasn't enough, the twin pairs of horns perched on either side of her head gave away her station immediately. It was uncommon for any caste below green to patronize this place—both because of its location (equidistant between jade and teal neighborhoods) and steep pricing. She was either extremely wealthy for her caste, or she was here to stir up trouble.

"What?" His voice was hoarser than he would've liked, and lazier too. The drug was _finally_ taking hold of him, thankfully. Maybe he wouldn't even have to finish this cup.

The troll smiled. "What else would you have in that mug? You wouldn't be using it unless you didn't want everybody else to see, right?" She grinned, as if the statement had surely incriminated him. "You can't hide from me, rainbow drinker."

He couldn't keep the sneer off of his face, amused despite himself. It was a childish taunt, obviously, but he still found a part of him inexplicably charmed by it. He considered flexing his own mythological knowledge by calling out the dull greyness of his skin— _certainly_ not that of a rainbow drinker—but decided better of it. She didn't seem the type to be amused by specificity, and, _somehow_ , her amusement felt more important than besting her in this conversation. _Vile drug._

"If only. Even mutant blood tastes better than this swill." The words came out before he can even thinks about speaking, his voice tinged with playfulness. Normally, he would've just gulped down his drink and walked straight past her, preferring to stomach the vile taste over an escapable conversation. But he was brimming with calm, bafflingly interested in what this goldblood had to say. Then, feeling as though he owed her further explanation, he found himself continuing, "It's easier to drink if I can't see it."

She chuckled, and spoke as she swiped a chair from a neighboring table and loudly dragged it over to his. "So... what kind is it? What kinda blood tastes worse than mutant, rainbow drinker?"

She could see into the mug. She knew it was tea. When he looked up at her, searching her face for the sincerity of the question, she smiled wider. Her lips parted to reveal a set of big, glistening fangs, fingers tapping on the table restlessly. Anticipating his answer. He wondered if she already knew what he would say—had even goaded him into saying it.

He said it anyway, his smirk adding a lightness to his voice—as if he was holding back laughter as he spoke. "Gold."

She cackled, slapping the table with her open palm uproariously. Whether she was expecting the answer or not, she found it hilarious. He caught a glimpse of yellow and purple under her bangs while she moved about.   
  
"Well," she said, and reached across the table to grab the mug right out of his hand. "Maybe you just haven't tried the right one." Then she tilted her head back and chugged the remainder of the drink, showing no reaction to the horrid taste nor the considerable potency of the opiate. Thumping the cup back on the table, she turned her attention back on him, that grin still on her face. "You wanna buy me another?"

To both of their surprise, he did. 

* * *

"Nirlan?"

Though she is at least a yard away, he raises his arm to touch her.

She stares at it for a moment—outstretched, vulnerable, and so unlike him—but her face doesn't change at all. Another beat, and then she turns around. No explanation, no acknowledgment, and no goodbye. 

He watches her leave, and he does nothing. When she is out of sight, he lets his arm fall.

There is no grace period—the tears do not start out slow and gentle and beautiful. They both knew very well that he was not one for beautiful things. No, instead they gush out of him, big ugly blobs desperate to be free of him, held captive for sweeps of reticence and repression.

He loves her too much, too too too too much, and he will never forgive himself.

She was right. He is soft. Bitter and petty, yes, but irreversibly, hopelessly soft. It is that softness that made her turn from him without a word, eyes glazing over him as if he was the ghost. She'd always known him better than he'd dared give her credit for.

His lips part and at first he thinks no sound will come out, but then he feels himself ripping, shredding apart, and a choked, half-formed sob claws its way up and out of his throat. He wonders if she can hear him.

Suddenly struck by the stinging pain in his hands, he recognizes the feeling of warm, gooey blood on his palms. For the first time ever, it's his—clawed out by clenched, scraping fingernails. Four half-moons on each palm pulse out thick, jade blood, and he's never felt so weak.

He opens them to the chilly air, but finds only blankness.

 


End file.
